


Sir

by lionsmay



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 21:20:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5221211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionsmay/pseuds/lionsmay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Burr's struggles as his feelings of bitterness and resentment toward Hamilton become more complicated and charged. General yearning and hopeless pining abound. Set during the period of time covered in "Non-Stop."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sir

When Hamilton opened his mouth to speak, it seemed the whole world listened. Burr was no exception; he was drawn in by rhythm and force of his friend’s words as they resounded in the courtroom. At the words “assistant counsel” though, he yelped and started into life. “ _Co_ -counsel. Hamilton, sit down” he said, tugging on his friend’s velvet-clad arm. He entered Mr. Weeks’ plea and then sat down himself. “That was all you had to say,” he hissed. Hamilton shrugged, flashing the court an irrepressible grin.

Really, Burr was angry with himself — for letting Hamilton’s mouth run away with him; for falling under the spell of Hamilton’s rhetoric along with everyone else. He was supposed to be better than this: smarter than this and more controlled. He would have to keep Hamilton on a tighter leash if they didn’t want to become a laughingstock. They had a responsibility to their client, to the firm and to Justice herself. Burr couldn’t allow Hamilton to turn these sacred proceedings into a show — and a _one-man_ show at that.

_Assistant counsel_ , he thought bitterly. Was that how Hamilton saw him? Not a peer or an equal, someone worthy of any consideration, but a glorified errand-boy, easily dismissed? Or maybe Hamilton never thought of him at all. The idea made Burr sick somehow, a sensation he understood as indignation. He chose not to dwell on it. He shook his head, trying vainly to clear it and focus on the rest of the case.

But he seethed throughout the rest of the day, the word _assistant_ scraping around in his mind, snagging and irritating, like a pebble in his shoe.

*****

 Over the years Burr had made a study of Hamilton, watching him carefully from all angles. He was trying to understand the exact mechanisms of the power Hamilton had over people. He wanted to break it down _(to break him down)_ in a kind of reverse alchemy so that one day he might be able to formulate some of that thrall for himself.

One thing he noticed was the way Hamilton had of standing. Or rather, the way he had of standing in relation to others. Hamilton always stood just a fraction closer to his conversational partner than other men did. Burr wondered if anyone else had noticed it; if so, no one said. It left the other party tilting their head upward — like a student, a supplicant, or a lover.

Burr had tried himself a few times, but it never felt right. He felt unwieldy and inelegant. Presumptuous. Like he was inserting himself where he oughtn’t. With Hamilton, the nearness was a pleasant but barely perceptible frisson; an instinctive pull like the warmth of a hearth-fire. It was intimate, to be sure, but never invasive _(but it would be hard to tell, wouldn’t it, because where_ wasn’t _Hamilton wanted?)._  

*****

Burr was hunched over his desk quill in hand when Hamilton burst through the doorway of their office. “This arrived for you,” Burr said, holding out a letter with a thick wax seal. He kept his head down among his papers but let his eyes travel upwards to search Hamilton’s face.

Hamilton reached for the letter, tearing the seal with a flourish. He read silently, his brow furrowed just so; wrinkled, Burr thought, like a sheet on an unmade bed that needed to be tugged firmly in place. Suddenly, an almost bashful smile illuminated his face.

“I was chosen for the Constitutional convention!” he cried.

Jealousy, bitterness and resentment twisted painfully in Burr’s gut. Hamilton was chosen. Of course Hamilton was chosen. Hamilton was always chosen. Burr didn’t so much resent his successes as resented the fact that it was impossible to completely resent him. The horrors of war had never quite quashed Hamilton’s boyish spirit and the giddy vulnerability he had been unable to keep out of his voice was … well, almost endearing.

That Burr couldn’t forgive.

He shook his head and managed to choke out, “Lucky _bastard_.”

Hamilton tossed his head back and laughed. He swept Burr toward him, grasping his forearms tightly before pulling him into a quick, hard embrace. Burr felt himself stiffen in his arms. Suddenly his head filled with the scent of Hamilton — smoke, salt and spice — then just as quickly it was gone.

Hamilton let Burr go with a whoop and charged toward the door and down the hallway, the letter still grasped firmly in his fist. Seconds later, he reappeared in the doorway, a grin still spread across his face.

“Oh, Aaron Burr, sir? I wanted to thank you. For delivering this.” he said, gesturing to the letter. Then he inclined his head slightly, almost quizzical expression crossing his face. When he spoke, Burr could have sworn his voice was just that much softer. “I’m glad you were here, old friend. I’m glad it was you.”

Burr nodded soundlessly, words poised and dying on his lips. Hamilton didn’t wait for a reply, just took off down the hallway again, his cheers echoing on the walls.

Alone in his office, Burr could still feel the heat of Hamilton’s hands on his arms. He lingered for another quarter hour, leafing sightlessly through his papers. Eventually he blew out the last candle and left.

*****

_Sir._ Hamilton used it playfully, but it always reminded Burr of the early days of their friendship. They had been so young, so green and so wide-eyed. There was so much they hadn’t seen and didn’t know. Hamilton had always been filled with fire and promise, of course.The difference was a certain … deferential quality he had once had, however briefly. He had looked up to Burr, aspired to him. For a flicker of a moment Burr had been a role model to Hamilton. The thought filled Burr with something close to nostalgia or perhaps wistfulness.

_Sir._ It disarmed him. He hated to admit it but it was true. He wondered if Hamilton knew that. If it was a manipulation. He wasn’t sure what he hoped.

_Sir._

*****

At the slightest nocturnal noise, Burr would wake with a start and a gasp, a reaction he considered a souvenir from the war. This time Burr traced the thumping he heard to the front door and when he looked out the window, to the person standing in front of it — Hamilton.

As he headed down the stairs, Burr was aware of a thousand things at once: the late hour, what the neighbours might think, his wife and daughter still asleep in their beds, and strangely, his night shirt — he could never get the collar lie quite so, not that that mattered.

_(it had certainly never mattered before)_

His heart slammed wildly in his chest and he thought suddenly of the phrase “heartbeat.” A wild, giddy thought. Had his heart ever more than tapped? This, though, was the pounding of a drum, violent and exclamatory.

With a breath, he thew open the door to reveal Hamilton on the other side.

“Can we confer, sir?” 

That damn honorific.

Awkward, Burr blurted “Is this a legal matter?”

_(foolish; what kind of legal matter would bring him here at this hour of the night?)_

“Yes, and it’s important to me.” Hamilton stepped inside and without any preliminaries, launched into his pitch.

As he listened, Burr felt a strange falling sensation in his chest. He crossed his arms tightly across it. He had been startled, that was all, and he was calming down now. But this calm, if it was calm, was having the most curious effect. His initial surprise and delight curdled. He felt himself being truculent, his replies motivated by a burst of temper whose origin he couldn’t quite trace.

_(oh, couldn't he?)_

Anonymous essays written to defend the Constitution — another of Hamilton harebrained, half-cocked ideas. It was a tremendous risk, Burr knew. The Constitution was far from a sure thing. If Hamilton’s plan failed, Burr would be saddled with these papers forever. It would be a blotch on his nam and a hinderance to his career. And if it succeeded? Well, the glory would be Hamilton’s wouldn’t it? Wasn’t it always Hamilton who got what he wanted, everything he wanted, everything Burr wanted?

_(what_ was _it that he wanted?)_

Still, Hamilton was persuasive as always. For a second, Burr considered it. He imagined himself and Alexander: late nights in the office, the candlesticks burning low; working, writing, and batting ideas back and forth. He considered heated arguments and playful jests. They’d be congenial, collegial: combative maybe, from time to time. He would have real standing with Alexander. He’d stand shoulder to shoulder with Alexander. Him and Alexander. The image flickered in his head for a second.

And then he remembered: “Yes, and it’s important to me.”

_It_ was important. The letters; the Constitution. Of course. Causes, fame, legacy. These were the things that were important to Hamilton. They were all that would ever really matter to Hamilton. Burr set his jaw and issued his final refusal. He bid Hamilton good night and, once he was sure Hamilton had gone, slammed his fist against the door.

*****

As Hamilton threw himself into his Federalist papers, Burr saw him less and less. When he did, Hamilton seemed cooler toward him and their seemed conversations briefer. Or perhaps he was just preoccupied. Perhaps it was all in Burr’s head. He was having trouble trusting his own thoughts sometimes.

Tonight provided a rare glimpse of Hamilton at the office and immediately Burr noted the changes in him. For his part, Burr prided himself in aging only in a slight greying around the temples. Worried the sliver stood out too much against his dark skin, he began to wear his hair cropped even more closely to his head. Vanity, he knew. But wasn’t a man allowed a little vanity? Not everyone could be Hamilton.

Incessant working and a youth spent in war meant age came more quickly to Hamilton. Impossibly, it only improved his infamous good looks. His already-lean face became even more drawn; hollows under the cheeks and a harder, sharper jaw emerged, throwing those lively, ever-moving eyes and that mouth _(that ridiculous mouth)_ into even starker relief.

Still, looks or no looks, Hamilton was woking too hard, Burr knew. He kept late hours at the office, working into the night before heading home to work even later still. Burr could see it in his face. Shadows lined the underside of Hamilton’s eyes, a half-moon of deep lavender against his light brown skin. Burr couldn’t stop looking at them. He was possessed by an overwhelming, almost physical compulsion to reach out and run his thumb softly along those shadows, to see if he could smudge them away. He thrust his hands into fists instead.

“Good night, Hamilton.”

“Burr, sir.”

Burr kept his fists clenched all the way home, but still he felt the thrumming, phantom touch of Alexander’s skin on his.

***** 

Burr crumpled the paper in his fist and with a strangled groan, threw them violently in the air. He watched as Hamilton’s latest essay — his fifty-first essay — floated neatly to the floor. Even in this, Hamilton was impervious to him.

“Why do you write like you’re running out of time?” he pleaded of the empty room. Hamilton was long gone. Off to Washington’s cabinet. On to bigger and better things than these four walls and the heart that lay beating _(bleeding)_ between them.

Burr felt as if he had been running after Hamilton half his life — to catch him or to outstrip him, he wasn’t sure. He realized now that it might not matter. He’d never catch up. He could never run fast enough, be good enough, work hard enough. It would never be enough.

_Enough_. Burr took a breath and squared his shoulders. He knew what he had to do. He would seal away all that roiled inside of him, all that struggled for life and acknowledgement, and never look at it again. He might not be able to outrun Hamilton, but he would find another way to the finish line. He would do whatever it took to get what he wanted and to make sure what he wanted was worthy of him. He would wait until the time was right and then he would act without emotion or hesitation. He would set heart to hardening. 

Still, even in the moment that he made this vow, a thought struck Burr with absolute, exquisite clarity:  _This man will be the death of me._

 


End file.
